Alius Analog

being vulnerable: some old thoughts

November twenty eightieth twenty fifteen.

So many words and feelings that I feel like I'm going to burst. Always trying to think of the most concise and short way to say something but it always comes out vague and stupid and I end up deleting it replacing it with a lame hashtag. But I'm sick of not saying words. It's 10:54 pm and I'm writing instead of doing everything else that needs to get done. "Friends" looms on the T.V. in front of me begging me to press play to fill the empty apartment as I try to muster up the energy to tackle my to do list thats been mocking me all week. It's 10:58 pm. I feel an odd comfort in the dark silence. It's just me.

I hate how it always comes back.

His ghostly memory haunts this time of year and I wish I could just get rid of it with the flick of my hand. I don't miss him. I miss who I thought he was. At least that's what I tell myself. It's been six months. woof. I remember texting him one night curled up in a ball on the couch in my apartment in Queens. "It just doesn't feel real," I said "seeing you again." It wasn't real. His response was a hollow empty promise to visit masked for being truth with "I love you beautiful."

It's bizarre to me how much this is affecting me. "You just need time" people say. Gosh I'm sick of that. I'm sick of waiting for someone else to come fill a hole that I sometimes wish wasn't dug in the first place.

I think I just want him to be sorry. Sorry for not being honest with me.

Don't tell me you love me and then take it back. Cause that's just not cool and nobody deserves that.